Now Autumns fire burns slowly along the woods,And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,And night by night the monitory blastWails in the key-hole, telling how it passdOer empty fields, or upland solitudes,Or grim wide wave; and now the power is feltOf melancholy, tenderer in its moodsThan any joy indulgent Summer dealt. William AllinghamDay and Night Songs. Autumnal Sonnet.

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stainedWith the blood of the grape, pass not, but sitBeneath my shady roof; there thou mayest restAnd tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,And all the daughters of the year shall dance!Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. William BlakeTo Autumn. St. 1.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green.Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. BryantThird of November.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beatsIn russet jacket;lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!And ah, ye poachers!Tis no sport for peasants. ByronDon Juan. Canto XIII. St. 75.

I saw old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn. HoodOde. Autumn.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the mossd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core. KeatsTo Autumn.

What visionary tints the year puts on,When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone!How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills,And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair! LowellAn Indian Summer Reverie.

Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring,Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove,Say, is not absence death to those who love? PopePastorals. Autumn. L. 27.

This sunlight shames November where he grieves In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun The day, though bough with bough be overrun.But with a blessing every glade receivesHigh salutation. RossettiAutumn Idleness.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the yearOn the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. ShelleyAutumn. A Dirge.

How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden? Umbered juices, And pulpèd oozes Pappy out of the cherry-bruises,Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden. With hair that musters In globèd clusters, In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes,Round thy brow and thine ears oershaden;With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies, Like velvet pansies Where through escapesThe splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies;With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes Of the feet whereunto it falleth down, Thy naked feet unsandalled;With robe gold-tawny that does not veil Feet where the red Is meshed in the brown,Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. Francis ThompsonA Corymbus for Autumn. St. 2.